Perhaps I was sixteen or seventeen when my heart first went cold and my resolution stoic. It was the year my first child was born and my life changed irrevocably.
The sense of estrangement from my previous life was palpable and the loneliness was directed onto A4 paper in biro ink.
Every spare moment of the day I wrote about everything. The loss of friendship, love, my aspirations, the joy of my daughter, the pain of not fitting in.
The comfort I sought and found in writing and reading my own writing. Kept me sane, kept me company, kept me happy.
Dinner was always on the table, the sheets washed, the house cleaned with a certain Mr Sheen. He wanted for nothing.
But he took everything.
The day he read my writing out loud. Laden with sarcasm and a vicious anger. I sobbed my heart out and begged him to stop as he tore each one into tiny paper ribbons.
I made a solemn promise as I slipped my blank paper and pen into a will-box. From this day forward I shall never write again.
Twenty years and some passed and my word was kept true. But many changes had occurred. I’d moved on from him and found in another, acceptance, encouragement, a will of giving liberation.
The thawing of my cold heart.
So I returned to my love, my solace, my company, my writing.
And I am happy again.